


The Good Old Hockey Game

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:24:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hockey!AU with action! Suspense! And playoff beards!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Old Hockey Game

**Author's Note:**

> So, somehow this came up on tumblr and, well... I wrote it. And it was fun. Expect a drabble series from this universe in the future because this was just way too much fun to play with (even if it's terrible). And since I finally got an AO3 account, I figured, why not? Because I know it'll get lost on my tumblr, haha.

“Sherlock!”

“Sherlock!”

“ _Sherlock get your arse on the ice or I’m benching you for the rest of the season!_ ”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Don’t want to.”

“We need to practice,” Lestrade insisted, tapping his stick on the ice for emphasis.

“Practicing’s boring,” Sherlock huffed.

“I don’t see why we can’t just substitute Gregson in for him,” Anderson said, idly passing the puck between Donovan and himself.

“You should. He could do with being taught a lesson once in a while,” John said loud enough for Sherlock to hear as he skated over from the goal.

That seemed to grab the man’s attention. “Don’t be ridiculous. You wouldn’t _dare_ put me on anything other than first line against Moriarty’s team. Not during playoffs. And certainly not in the Stanley Cup Finals.”

“He will if you keep on being a prat about it,” Donovan snapped.

Lestrade sighed and swiped a gloved hand over his face as an argument erupted around him. He was getting too old for this. In all honesty, he probably would have retired ages ago if not for love of the game. He could put up with the rumors that he was only still playing because he was sleeping with the coach, and he could deal with Sherlock being Sherlock and the rest of his team badgering each other like no tomorrow. He could even deal with the fact that the team he’d been drafted to—and that he’d played for since he’d made it to the pro hockey level—hadn’t won the Cup since he was in diapers. He could put up with it because, when it came right down to it, he knew he captained a fine team. It was just getting them to cooperate that could be a little tricky.

He spared a glance at John. Their goaltender just rolled his eyes and offered a sympathetic nod. John Watson was a hell of a goalie, especially considering his story. He’d come under a lot of fire last season for what everyone considered to be a very poor performance throughout. Considering the operation he’d undergone for a shoulder injury, though, Lestrade couldn’t blame him. Besides which, Bradstreet was a talented goalie as well—he’d managed to mostly fill the gap left by John.  Still, there was something amazing about the complete about face he’d made this season. He’d gone from one of the lowest ranked goalies in the league to one of the top nominees for the Vezina. It was inspiring, really. Especially considering that he was one of their newer players, having only joined them two years prior.

But they couldn’t rely on John’s talent to carry them through to the Cup. They needed teamwork.

“All right, all right, enough!” Lestrade barked. “Sherlock, get out here. Anderson, Donovan, get in position. Dimmock, back to yours. If you want to win, you’d better damn well work for it. We’re not skating by on how talented we think we might be. We’re going to do this with hard work and know-how. We’re going to go through these plays until _I_ decide that we’re through, and not a minute before. Am. I. Clear?”

There was a chorus of answers as they skated to their positions, Sherlock joining them with an only slightly sulky air. Good. Now they could get some proper work done.

* * *

“Good work, everyone. Another practice like that and we might just have a shot at this. John, remember to keep an eye on your feet. Milverton’s a sneaky bugger, so he’s going to try to fake you out with that quick stickwork of his. Sherlock, watch that puck drop. You know Moran’s not pulling any punches here. Do _not_ get into another staring contest with Moriarty. Anderson, Donovan, make sure to keep his back. He’s going to need it. Dimmock, make sure you’re keeping the puck out of our zone. I don’t care if you have to fire it until it hits the boards at the other end, just get it out of there. Try to avoid an icing call if you can, but if you can’t, so be it,” Lestrade instructed, watching them all file towards the locker room. “Rest up! We’re back here at 7 a.m. sharp tomorrow!”

He heaved a mighty sigh as the last of them disappeared off the ice before pulling his helmet back on. He’d follow them in a moment—after a quick skate of his own. There was really nothing else like it for clearing his head, and he desperately needed it. They hadn’t made it this far into the playoffs in well over a decade. It was a lot of pressure. That and the thought of retirement weighed heavily on his mind. He’d given some serious thought to hanging up his jersey at the end of this season—he wasn’t as young as he used to be. In fact he was probably one of the oldest players in the league, if not the oldest. He liked to think he could hold his own, that he was a good captain, but sometimes there was no denying that you lost a certain edge as you got older. Especially in this sport.

He growled under his breath as he picked up speed. It was frustrating. Lord knows he didn’t want to leave, but there would soon come a time where he’d be a fool to stay. Same for Bradstreet and Gregson, really. The thought of turning the future of the team over to Sherlock and the others was… well… he related the feeling to a minor cardiac episode.

“Thinking about retirement again?”

The voice brought a sudden smile to his lips and he skated ‘round to the edge of the rink, bringing himself to a stop with a spray of ice chips. Pawing his helmet off, he leaned forward, a boyish grin transforming his features.

“Hey, Coach,” he hummed.

“And hello to you, Captain,” Mycroft replied, dipping forward for a brief kiss.

Lestrade chuckled as he pulled back. Mycroft, for all his properness, had stuck with his team in growing a playoff beard, albeit a slightly better groomed one. Lestrade had to admit, he rather liked it on the taller man—even if it made kissing tickle. He crossed his arms and leaned on the boards.

“Thanks for skipping practice today. I really appreciate it,” he said earnestly.

“Not at all. I understand that Sherlock can be… _difficult_ at the best of times, while in my presence. Especially this late in the season. I trust he was somewhat more manageable?” Mycroft inquired, making a valiant attempt at straightening Lestrade’s disheveled silver hair.

“After John told me I should bench him for the rest of the playoffs, he certainly was,” Lestrade said, a quick laugh escaping him.

“I can imagine,” Mycroft said with a sympathetic smile. “I made my afternoon productive as well.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Indeed. Mr. Moriarty and I had lunch.”

Lestrade had to grab on to the wall quickly to keep himself from slipping on the ice. He stared at Mycroft, wide-eyed.

“You _what_?” he sputtered.

“We had lunch. It was very informative,” Mycroft replied, apparently still enjoying the look of shock on his face.

“But… But he’s the _enemy_!” Lestrade said with a note of disbelief.

“True. But it is beneficial to ‘know thine enemy’ as they say,” Mycroft reasoned. “I believe we both took away a better understanding of one another from this little tête-à-tête.”

“And that means…?” Lestrade prompted.

“We can win this. I’m sure of it,” Mycroft declared confidently.

Feeling slightly more relaxed, Lestrade’s grin returned once more. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

* * *

Lestrade took a deep breath, shifting slightly as the national anthem was sung. They didn’t have the advantage of home ice, that was true, but he felt pretty good about this first game. The team looked confident, Sherlock looked like he was positively ablaze with energy. Good. They’d need their star center more than anything tonight.

Hopefully things would keep on the up-and-up.

* * *

 _“Dimmock chases the puck behind the back of the net. Shovels it out to Lestrade, past the waiting stick of Milverton. Lestrade takes it up the ice. Looking for an open. Holmes shakes free of Johnson, makes himself available. Lestrade takes the open, approaching the blue line, passes the puck to Holmes, Holmes takes the puck up the right—oh! And Lestrade goes down hard! Moran deals out a_ devastating _hit just as the puck leaves the Yarder captain’s stick. We’ve got a whistle. Oh, this is not good. He’s not getting up.”_

* * *

The entire bench was on their feet in an instant. For once, Mycroft didn’t care what the cameras saw as he quickly made his way out onto the ice alongside the team’s trainers. John had ripped his helmet off and skated over with as much speed as his bulky pads could muster, shooing away the circle of their concerned team mates.

Lestrade hadn’t moved since he’d fallen, his limbs locked in the same position they’d been just before the hit. As Mycroft knelt beside John, he could see that Lestrade’s dark eyes were unblinking, wide and blank—he was reminded of black ice. The man had been out cold before he’d ever hit the ice.

“Come on, Greg, breathe for me,” John said insistently.

Lestrade drew a few stuttering breaths as he slowly swam towards something resembling consciousness. It became readily apparent that he wouldn’t be skating this one off. A few routine questions delivered a picture of confusion; Lestrade seemed to be under the impression that they were still in Canada. They hadn’t been for two weeks.

Mycroft held his Captain’s hand as he watched the paramedics bring the backboard out.

“I c’n walk off,” Lestrade slurred.

“No. No, Gregory you’re going to—“

Mycroft was interrupted as the crowd erupted all around them. Lifting his head quickly, he spotted Sherlock and Moran throwing their gloves off and locking together. Helmets were ripped off, jerseys pulled and punches thrown wildly. Moran seemed to be enjoying himself; Sherlock seemed a man possessed. Before Mycroft could shout at his younger brother, the cry from the crowd went up again. The glass rattled as fans slapped open palms against it as Donovan and Anderson tangled with Milverton and Johnson in similar fashion. Before he knew what was happening, both benches had emptied onto the ice and players from both sides began to wage war.

The referees were overwhelmed, the fans were up in arms. Amidst the chaos, Mycroft spotted Moriarty, cool and composed from his team’s bench. He caught Mycroft’s eye. He smiled. Apparently Sherlock had caught that over Moran’s shoulder, because he began doing his best to shake the opposing center off and make his way towards Moriarty.

As much as he wanted to go with Lestrade, he needed to remain where he was. Before someone else got hurt. Squeezing the Captain’s hand, he leaned over the backboard as they prepared to carry him off the ice.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can. You’re going to be all right, Gregory,” he said warmly.

Squeezing one last time, he reluctantly let the man’s hand go and waded into the fray.

* * *

“A five minute penalty for interference and game misconduct? That’s a fucking disgrace,” Gregson groused.

“The board’s reviewing it. With a hit like that, he should get a harsher punishment,” Dimmock added.

“If he’s not suspended for the rest of the series, someone’s getting my stick shoved up their arse,” Donovan said icily.

A murmur of agreement went around the room.

“I thought the nurse said only three visitors at a time,” Lestrade rasped, not bothering to try to lift his head. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open. It made the room spin. Everything seemed… too loud. Too much.

“Oh, so you _are_ awake. Here we were all worrying about you and you’re faking,” Gregson said teasingly.

Lestrade couldn’t bring himself to rise to the bait. Keeping himself awake was hard enough work as it was. He wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to be awake.

“…Greg?” Gregson sounded nervous now.

“’mhere,” he mumbled.

The room was silent for a few moments. Until Sherlock decided he couldn’t take it anymore.

“We won.”

Had he not felt like he was plummeting through space, Lestrade would have laughed. Leave it to Sherlock to try to make things better by bringing that up. Still, he was glad. They must’ve been able to keep themselves composed enough to work as a real team. He was proud. He just wished he’d been there for it.

The next thing he knew, there was a hand on his. He chanced cracking one eye open. His team had gone and Mycroft was in a chair at his bedside, his face the picture of concern.

“Sherlock said we won,” he mumbled.

Mycroft sighed in what looked like relief. Lestrade was confused. It must have shown on his face, because Mycroft was quick to explain.

“You… weren’t entirely certain of who I was when I was last here,” he said.

Oh. Well, that would explain it.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m just grateful you’re going to be all right,” Mycroft said, running his thumb gently over Lestrade’s knuckles. “The board returned their vote, by the way. Moran’s received a five game suspension. As well as a rather hefty fine.”

“Assuming it goes five games,” Lestrade pointed out with a soft sigh.

“This is true. For now, however, concern yourself with resting. I’ll handle the rest.”

Lestrade might have hummed in consent, he wasn’t sure. He simply allowed himself to fall into sleep once more.

* * *

The next five games were hard. Hard to play and even harder to watch. Lestrade itched to get off the bench and onto the ice, but the doctor hadn’t cleared him yet, and to be honest, he wasn’t quite ready. Still, he could attend at least to provide moral support for his team.

He’d have lied if he said the roar of the crowd as he entered the arena at Mycroft’s side wasn’t touching. Or that the bruises and stitches his team sported as a result of a brawl begun on his behalf wasn’t oddly heartwarming. But he needed to keep his head on straight. Literally.

So he focused on watching the game.

By game six he was practically gnawing on hockey sticks for all the tension.

“Oh, come on, ref! That’s hooking as plain as the nose on my face!” he called from the bench.

“Gregory. Patience,” Mycroft instructed beside him.

“How can I be fucking patient when the _referees_ are making a mockery of my team?” he growled back, before being distracted by yet another whistle. “Are you _blind_! Anderson barely touched him! That’s real nice, Stapleton, why don’t you go out for the bloody Olympic Dive Team, you’re a shoe in!”

“Sit. _Now_ ,” Mycroft said, shooting him a glare.

Lestrade closed his jaw with an audible click, folding his arms across his chest and sitting down with a glower. He knew Mycroft was right, that it did the team no good for him to get this upset, but when he couldn’t be out there for them, he supposed the least he could do was to feel some small bit of outrage for them. He scooted further down the bench, making room as the first line returned to the bench and the second swapped out.

“They’re going to force us into a game seven,” Sherlock announced with a snarl.

“You’re telling me,” Lestrade agreed immediately. He looked down the length of the bench at the team. “It’s not your fault. You’ve all been playing hard. They just want to see some blood when they get two rival teams together.”

“So let’s give it to them,” Dimmock piped up.

“No, don’t play into their hands. They’re doling out enough penalties against us as it is,” Lestrade was quick to correct. “If they want a game seven then we’ll bloody well give it to them. For now, all of you just hang tight. No theatrics. Especially you, Sherlock.”

The black eye was beginning to fade and the stitches on his right hand had come out, but Sherlock still seemed full of vim and vigor from the events of the first game.

“Moran will be back the next game,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yeah. And so will I,” Lestrade answered.

“Interesting. I don’t recall our physician clearing you for play,” Mycroft said smoothly from behind them. Lestrade recognized the tone of carefully controlled calm. Mycroft wasn’t happy.

“He will,” Lestrade said.

“Look, Greg, we’d all love to see you back on the ice, but that was… I mean, that’s a career ruiner for some players,” Anderson said slowly. “Don’t you think it’d be pushing it, coming back so soon?”

“Let’s just get through this game first, yeah?” Donovan chipped in.

“Let them have their way for now,” Sherlock said, changing the subject without having realized it. Lestrade followed the younger man’s gaze. He was locked on to Moriarty. “I’d like another chance at breaking Moriarty’s prized pooch’s nose.”

Lestrade sighed in a long suffering manner, but was unable to help the small smile that made its way to his face. The fact that this was something that got the bench nodding in agreement was almost amusing.

* * *

“You can’t play tonight.”

Lestrade didn’t bother to look up, just continued taping up his stick. He’d been expecting this, honestly. It was almost surprising that it had taken Mycroft this long to get around to it. Ever since the team physician had hesitantly cleared him to play the night prior, he’d been waiting for the ball to drop.

“I’ve been cleared, Mycroft. This is the most important game… well, ever, I suppose. I’m not sitting out,” Lestrade answered.

“Please.”

He stopped when Mycroft’s hand closed around his wrist and the near-silent plea left his lips. He had to look up for that. It hurt—in some ways more than the concussion had—to see the taller man so obviously concerned.

“I’ll be careful, all right?” Lestrade said needlessly. “You know you can’t bench me for this one. You just can’t. After this game, win or lose, I’ll spend as much time off the ice as you’d like. But not tonight. I need to be there. Do you understand?”

“Do _you_ understand, Gregory? Anderson was correct. The injury you suffered… there are few players who would have walked away from that as you have,” Mycroft answered. “Career aside, it’s you I’m worried about. Perhaps, if you could have seen what you’d looked like that night when I’d walked out onto the ice, you might understand that I thought that… well. I thought… that you might not ever get up again.”

Lestrade lowered his eyes at that. Mycroft didn’t want to bench him, he wouldn’t be _forced_ not to play, but Mycroft was doing his best to convince him to make the decision himself. He knew how much this game meant, which was the only reason he was keeping the majority of his worry from spilling out in front of them.

“Thank you. For respecting me enough to let me make this decision myself,” Lestrade said, placing a hand over the one on his wrist. “But I stand by what I said. I’m playing. Someone’s got to make sure Sherlock doesn’t break Moran’s face, yeah?”

“Actually,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat softly, “I was rather hoping he might.”

Lestrade just laughed.

* * *

Lestrade growled as he went shoulder-to-shoulder with Moran at the boards. They both scrabbled for the puck, watching as it was freed and moved to center ice.

“How’s the head, old man?” Moran jeered.

“How’s your nose?” Lestrade countered, refusing to allow himself to be riled up. They couldn’t afford it.

He watched carefully as Moran skated back up ice, turning his head as John called out from behind him.

“Honestly, though, you’re good?” he asked.

“Lovely,” Lestrade answered. “Keep it up, John. Brilliant work.”

He wasn’t sure what it was, but Moran seemed to have it out for him that night. More often than not, it seemed like they were toe-to-toe whenever one of them so much as looked at the puck. A few words were exchanged, but nothing much beyond that. Until things came to a head. Skating up the right side, chasing after his team, he was surprised to feel something connect with his left skate. Losing his balance, he fell flat on his stomach, skidding along the ice.

The mingled boos and cheers came first, then the whistle. And then the crowd exploded. He righted himself—with some help from Anderson—in just enough time to see Sherlock hurl himself at Moran, the obvious perpetrator. What transpired next was nothing short of brutal.

When Sherlock had made the promise to break Moran’s nose, Lestrade didn’t think he’d actually try to keep it. But Sherlock fought like his life depended on it, throwing precise, balanced punches to counter Moran’s wild, powerful swings. It seemed as if the fight might go on forever until one beauty of a jab (he’d have to compliment him on that one later) made its way through the flurry and hit Moran square in the jaw. Dazed, the man lost his balance and fell to a knee, held up mostly by Sherlock’s hand fisted in the front of his jersey.

The referees stepped in at that point, pulling them away. They were both bloodied and bruised, but the winner of the fight was clear. Amidst the roar and claps from their supporters, Sherlock flashed a grin at Lestrade and bowed to his audience before he was hauled off to the penalty box.

“Idiot,” John said affectionately from just behind him. “But he’s our idiot, I suppose.”

“That he is,” Lestrade agreed.

* * *

Lestrade leaned forward with his hands on his knees, anticipation gnawing at his insides. John was poised within the crease, ready for whatever was coming at him.

As the third period had ended, the game had remained scoreless. They’d gone into overtime. Then double overtime. Then triple. Still, the score remained unchanged. Both sides were exhausted, but willing to drive themselves into the ground if it meant taking the Cup.

The puck dropped and a ferocious battle took place for possession. The puck bounced here, there, back and forth. All within their zone. Lestrade felt his heart leap into his throat as the puck went behind their net, to the waiting stick of Sebastian Moran. He curved swiftly around the back of the net, coming up along John’s side. A wrap around. And with the tangle of bodies, the chances of John seeing the incoming puck were slim to—

And then he was suddenly reminded of why John was the top nominee for the Vezina. In a stunning display of agility, their short statured goal tender lunged back towards his goal, swinging his stick like a broadsword. You could have knocked Lestrade over with a feather as he watched the puck deflect off the stick and towards center ice—where Sherlock stood with only one man in his way.

Moran snarled in outright fury as Sherlock stole away with the puck, his speed clearly outmatching Stapleton as they raced towards Roylott in the opposing goal. Time seemed to stand still as Sherlock wove an intricate pattern towards the net, before flicking his stick and the puck with it.

For a moment, Lestrade didn’t believe the sound of the goal horn, or the cheers of thousands of fans. It was only when he saw Roylott bow his head in defeat with that little black disc sitting snugly in the corner of the net behind him that he dared crack a smile. Sherlock glided along the ice, his stick raised in victory, his expression smug, triumphant… but mostly, Sherlock was just _glowing_. And when John launched himself at Sherlock, dragging them both down to the ice, it was safe to say that Lestrade had never seen such a look of undisguised happiness on their genius centers face. Their team poured out of the bench, mounting in an enormous pile of bodies in the center of the ice.

Lestrade hung back a moment, watching their defeated rivals make a slow retreat back to their own side. He didn’t miss the sight of Mycroft and Moriarty meeting each other on the ice, exchanging a firm handshake and a few words. He had a feeling that the piercing gaze between them said more than any of their words could have. He was distracted when he felt a tap on his left skate and glared when he found it was Moran. The rival center wasn’t happy, that much was certain, but he wasn’t about to throw a tantrum either.

“Next year,” Moran promised.

Lestrade barked a laugh. “Keep dreaming.”

Odd, how when it was all over, the malice seemed drained out of them. For the moment, anyway. Next season, he knew it would be back full force. But for now, they—

“Congratulations, Captain.”

He grinned as Mycroft stole up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Congratulations to you, Coach. Now… what do you say we get over there before Sherlock runs off with the Cup and I have to wait another forty bleeding years to see it again.”

“A wise decision.”

“Indeed.”

Mycroft would later say that he in no way appreciated being dragged to the ice and into the dogpile by his team. But it was rather difficult to deny when there was video evidence of his laughter.

* * *

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

Lestrade glanced up as John took a seat on the plane beside him. They were headed home now, the Cup in their possession and Sherlock guarding it like the fate of the world depended on it.

“Sure does. Must be doubly so for you,” Lestrade said, nodding to the freshly crowned Vezina trophy winner.

John went a bit pink at the tips of his ears. “Ah. Yeah. Well… you know.”

“No, really. You’ve been absolutely fucking brilliant. We never would have made it this far without you,” Lestrade insisted. “You deserve every bit of the recognition coming your way. I’m just glad the rest of them finally see what we have all along.”

John dipped his head in an appreciative nod, obviously not comfortable discussing his own triumphs. He pursed his lips, drumming his fingers along the arm rest, obviously trying to figure out how to broach whatever subject he’d wandered over to discuss.

“So. Sherlock tells me… you might be retiring, now,” he said cautiously.

Lestrade leaned back in his seat with a sigh. Leave it to Sherlock to deduce that.

“He’s right,” he said with a slight shrug. “What can I say? I’m old. Ancient for a hockey player, really. I’m past my prime and I know it. There comes a time when every player has to recognize his own limitations.”

John looked crestfallen.

“That being said, however, you’re all barmy if you think I’m leaving the captaincy to Sherlock.”

John’s expression turned puzzled, slightly hopeful. “So, you’re not…?”

“Not unless you’re carting me off the ice in a wooden box.”

John jabbed him roughly in the arm, a grin making its home on his face. “Worried me for nothing, you great arse.”

“I know my limits. I’m just too stubborn to kneel to them. Figured you’d know that by now,” Lestrade countered with a grin to match.

With a disbelieving laugh, John shook his head and rose from his seat, making his way back to Sherlock. Mycroft took his place sometime later and it wasn’t long after that they were airborne. Lestrade sank into his seat, feeling a strange mixture of calm and excitement still tumbling inside him. He patted Mycroft’s hand.

“It’s good to be headed home,” he declared.

“Indeed it is. Although perhaps once we’ve settled, I thought I might persuade you to take a short holiday,” Mycroft answered.

“Just you and I?” Lestrade questioned.

“Just you and I,” Mycroft affirmed.

“Can we bring Lord Stanley?”

“No, I’m afraid Lord Stanley must remain behind. This is a two-man party only. Besides which, I believe you’d have a difficult time in extracting him from my brother’s grip,” Mycroft said with a soft chuckle.

“He’s like a man-child with a teddy bear,” Lestrade said, briefly watching Sherlock swat Anderson away from the Cup. “But anyway… I suppose I could clear my schedule for that.”

“I am gratified to hear that, o captain, my captain,” Mycroft hummed.

“After the celebration, of course.”

“And not a moment sooner.”

He laughed, looking out the window as the clouds rolled by. It really was unbelievable. He didn’t suppose he’d ever get over it. Tapping his foot, he began to hum a tune under his breath, but the words emerged quickly enough.

“Hello out there, we’re on the air, it’s hockey night tonight.”

And suddenly he found that Donovan had begun to sing along with him. And before he knew it, Anderson and John and Dimmock and Bradstreet and Gregson and even Sherlock, the cabin was filled with the sound of them all singing the familiar verses as they returned home, a team united in victory.

 _“Now the final flick of a hockey stick,_

 _And the one gigantic scream:_

 _"The puck is in" - The home team wins_

 _The good old hockey game!_

 _Oh! The good old hockey game,_

 _Is the best game you can name;_

 _And the best game you can name,_

 _Is the good old Hockey game!_

 _Oh! The good old hockey game,_

 _Is the best game you can name;_

 _And the best game you can name,_

 _Is the good old Hockey game!”_

 


End file.
